


Hold On

by boulderuphill



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-01-19
Packaged: 2021-02-19 11:08:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22310047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boulderuphill/pseuds/boulderuphill
Summary: Seeing Kevin Day at the USC campus is like something out of Jean’s dreams. As if his nightmares of the Nest have somehow mixed with his more recent dreams and produced this image of Kevin standing there with a borrowed USC varsity jacket thrown over his shoulders.
Relationships: Kevin Day/Jean Moreau
Comments: 15
Kudos: 143





	Hold On

**Author's Note:**

> set post books, kevin visits jean at usc. edited by the lovely [essence29](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Essence29)

Seeing Kevin Day at the USC campus is like something out of Jean’s dreams. As if his nightmares of the Nest have somehow mixed with his more recent dreams and produced this image of Kevin standing there with a borrowed USC varsity jacket thrown over his shoulders. 

The evening breeze nips at Jean’s naked arms as he fumbles with Jeremy’s key, and when the court door finally swings open he reminds himself that there is no use getting attached to the way Kevin looks in red and gold. Still, walking along the hall to the changing room and passing the countless pictures of previous teams, all watching them with broad smiles, it is impossible not to imagine Kevin among them. 

Jean’s uniforms hang side by side in his locker, and he places the one with inverted colors on the bench next to Kevin; its golden base like a plate of armour. It should make Kevin look like something out of Homer’s epics, a proud and fearless hero wielding the racquet like a spear, but when Kevin puts it on it looks misshapen. 

“It does not fit you,” Jean says, disappointment stirring in his chest as he reaches out to tug at Kevin’s sleeve. They're not so different in height, and even though Kevin has always been thinner, his time away from the Nest has reduced him to little more than lean muscle and pointy bones, the jersey enhancing every sharp edge like a piece of cloth draped over old furniture. 

“It isn’t mine,” Kevin says, treading the golden helmet over his head, “besides, it’s only for tonight.”

Once they’re on the court, they settle into an endless chase. Their movements are instinctive and unspoken, ingrained into them during their time at the Nest in a way that hasn’t quite left them yet. They keep it up for what feels like hours, Kevin attempting to score and Jean stopping him, over and over again until weariness makes Jean misstep and Kevin seizes the opportunity. 

He takes the shot, and Jean grunts as he throws his racquet forward to intercept it. It buys him another second, and they both run towards the ball as it rolls along the floor, loud breaths and the squeaking of their shoes filling the court in the seconds before they collide. 

Jean presses his shoulder against Kevin, and Kevin’s racquet stirs tirelessly beneath his in its attempts to scoop up the ball, but as Jean shifts his weight to push Kevin aside a sharp pain between his ribs makes him lose his footing. 

It can’t be for more than a second that Kevin’s elbow digs into his side, but to counter it Jean throws his racquet up, hitting something so hard that it makes Kevin stumble and fall onto the floor with a loud thud.

There is no one else there to hit the back of Jean’s knees until he falls as well, so he remains standing, watching as Kevin brings his armoured glove to his face and presses it against the grating that protects it. 

“What the fuck?” Kevin says, and when he lowers his hand the blood has already made its way from his nose to his chin, leaving a trail of red that curves around his lips and threatens to spill onto his golden jersey. 

“What the fuck, Jean?” he says again while tearing his helmet off, and when Jean doesn’t answer he spits it out in French as well. But with his hands cupping his nose, dark hair dishevelled and unruly, he truly looks so unlike himself, Jean can’t help but laugh. 

“You look like-” Riko's name clings to his tongue, like speaking it might somehow summon him, “after the Master’s visit, do you remember?” 

At first, Kevin looks at him in disbelief, blood already staining the bottom of his palms, but as his eyes soften Jean notices the dimple, like a small canyon beneath Kevin’s still unfamiliar tattoo.

“You didn’t find it funny at the time,” Kevin says, and when he lowers his hands the blood is smeared, staining his lips and the skin around them. “You made me hide with you in that closet.” 

It should be a memory of nothing but darkness, but every time Jean looks back on it now it seems to take on a lighter shade. How many nights spent alone has he recalled the feeling of Kevin’s finger against his lips and found comfort in those breathy whispers that assured him they would be alright? 

He offers his hand to Kevin, and as he pulls him onto his feet the urge to pull him close tugs at him in much the same way it did all those years ago.

The first aid kit in the locker room is smaller than the one he remembers from the Nest, but the wet wipes are stacked in the top right corner, just like he expects them to be. 

“Jeremy’s going to boot you off the team if you play like that next season.” When Kevin sits on the bench, leaning back against the maroon lockers, the red on his face looks like it’s part of his uniform. 

“It is not a switch I can flip, you know this,” Jean says, and relaxes into the familiarity of pressing the wipe against Kevin’s stained skin. “Even you do it still. That thing with the elbow? The Foxes did not teach you that.” 

“An elbow doesn’t get you red-carded, breaking someone’s nose does.” Kevin winces when the wipe touches the base of his nose, and Jean presses a little harder to make a point.

“It is not broken,” he says because they have both seen enough broken bones to know.

“Not for a lack of trying.” Kevin smiles, and Jean’s eyes flicker to his Trojan Red lips, smeared with iron and warmth.

“I know you keep turning Jeremy’s offers down,” Jean says, and Kevin’s smile melts before it disappears behind Jean’s hand, “and I look more like a child every time I tell him to ask you again.”

Kevin shrugs, lips sealed shut by the wipe pressing against them. Even when Jean’s arm falls to his side, Kevin’s skin carries a red tint, shimmering from the wetness of the disinfectant. 

“I won’t become the best here,” Kevin says, fingers lingering against the hem of the jersey before he pulls it over his head. “And the Foxes won’t win finals next year if I leave.”

“You will break your back carrying that team.” Jean bites back the urge to spit onto the locker room floor, and when a fresh drop of blood runs down the edge of Kevin’s cupid’s bow, it gives him an excuse to turn away, tearing two balls of cotton off of the roll in the first aid kit. 

*

When they return to the dorm Kevin sits on Jeremy’s bed, soft blue sheets bunching around him as he adjusts the pillows behind himself.

“I wanted to give you the option,” Jean says with a nod towards the bed, “And I was not sure how to explain it to Jeremy without it sounding, you know.” He waves his hand in an attempt to convey it without speaking, not sure what words might do this thing—this relationship—they share justice.

“Maybe I should sleep here, then,” Kevin leans back against the wall, but there is a playfulness to the way he mimics Jean’s motion with his own hand. “So it doesn’t seem, you know.” 

Jean swallows the urge to climb on top of him, to pin his wrists against the wall and show Kevin with his mouth that _it is exactly how it seems._ Instead, he remains standing still, and maybe Kevin sees the cracks in his composure, because he makes the stride across the room so casual, settling between the dark grey covers of Jean’s bed like they were made for him. It takes Jean mere seconds to follow, and the warmth of Kevin’s body against his blurs the line between memories and dreams. 

“Do you think it’s safe to take these out?” Kevin touches the cotton, smiling a little as he does. “Will you be angry if I bleed out onto your sheets?” 

“No,” Jean breathes out, because it is the only thing he trusts himself to say when Kevin is so close. Kevin quirks his brow, as if he can’t quite decide which question Jean answered, but he follows through and pulls the cotton out anyways and all that remains is a small patch of dried blood.

Kevin falls asleep with his back against Jean’s chest while Jean listens for footsteps outside of the door. Jeremy won’t be back until next week, but still Jean spends the hour it takes him to fall asleep waiting for the door to swing open at any moment. 

*

Something buzzes in the dark, a sharp and jagged sound that drowns out Kevin’s steady breathing, and it takes Jean a moment to realise the source of it is Kevin’s phone, lit up on the bedside table.

“Kevin,” he whispers, and when his fingers brush against his arm, Kevin startles awake, rolling onto his back and grabbing the phone to answer it in one, erratic motion. 

“Yes,” Kevin says, and the way Japanese trails off his lips makes Jean’s eyes twitch towards the door, expecting it to burst open at any moment. “Yes, sir. Yes. Yes.” For two minutes Kevin is a parrot, and when he finally hangs up, he drops the phone onto the table and rolls over without a word. 

“Tell me,” Jean says as he wraps his arms around Kevin, pulling him close until his lips are pressed against the back of Kevin’s head. There is only one person it could be, but still, he asks; “Who calls you in the middle of the night?” 

“The Lord.” Kevin’s voice is low, but Jean feels the vibrations of it against his chest. 

“Why?” It’s barely a breath, and Kevin turns in his embrace. 

“To remind me,” Kevin answers, with the same kind of tired resignation that used to accompany his words during late nights in the Nest. 

“He knows you won’t forget.”

 _How could anyone?_ Jean has never gotten a call like that, yet the knowledge that his body is not his own is nestled deep within his ribs, making each breath as steady a reminder as the tattoo on his face. 

“You know that’s not what I mean.” Kevin’s hand finds Jean’s beneath the covers, and he laces their fingers together. When he speaks again, the whisper breaks like a breath against Jean’s lips. “And you know that if I had a choice,” he says, squeezing Jean’s hand in his, “I would choose this.” 

**Author's Note:**

> all my aftg fanfics are just *yearning* *sports uniform symbolism* *holding hands instead of kissing*


End file.
